Thank you, Mr. Man Who First Used The Word Fuck, heretofore referred to as one, Mr. Fuck.

I just spent the last hour dancing around in my fucking apartment wearing short-shorts and a suggestively ripped tank top that reads: "The Only Bush I Trust is My Own." It is colder than cocksuckers outside and I have my oven door wide open and turned up to 500 degrees. I will probably kill myself with carbon monoxide.

"Fuck," I said to myself, "Self, Life is just so fucked up right now. I am completely fucked up in so many lovely and horrible ways. Fuck! Motherfuck-a-fuck. Fuck-along-a-ding-dong."

I have been unbearably incapable of writing.

But, I was absolutely compelled to write this.

So, thank you, Mr. Fuck, for giving me a word that so satisfies everything I feel right now and has motivated me to write something, albeit insiginficant.

I had a dream last night that my head had swollen to ginormous proportions. It was so large that I could barely balance it atop my neck. So, me and my exceedingly large head were at a party with lots of beautiful people and we were all sitting around a big pile of cocaine. But, the cocaine was not white. It was rusty brown. My friend, Anne, and I were the only ones with razor blades, so we furtively pounded the little blocks of coke into snortable piles.

The whole time we reveled at this party, I wasn't particularly worried that I could be dying because my head had swollen to a dangerous size; I was worried about trying to appear attractive to the others at the party.

I kept trying to pose so my big head wouldn't seem so big. And smoothing down the skin on my big head so it wouldn't look stretchy and shiny.

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It occurred to me the other day when I was watching "Just Like Heaven," (shut up, I happen to really like Mark Ruffalo) that whenever a film has a tough/unconventional female lead who has to "learn a lesson about life," you can always tell when she has "softened" because her hair suddenly has these wispy natural looking curls.

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Two things I never want to do again:

-- Buy and wear black nylons because I have to be tasteful at a funeral.-- Make a playlist for a loved one's viewing because the funeral home only has weird traditional Indian music to play. I let them keep my CD mix of John Mayer/Jimi Hendrix and Bright Eyes.